


Miserable Mudpit

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Duty, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Justice, King's Own, Leadership, Mercy - Freeform, References to Military Discipline, References to Profanity, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 06:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Dom and his squad's time in the miserable mudpit before Kel arrives. Set during Lady Knight.





	Miserable Mudpit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Military Week challenge as part of the Free for All Event at Goldenlake.

Miserable Mudpit

Marching Orders

“Captain.” Dom snapped a salute as soon as he stepped into Captain Flyndan’s office in Fort Steadfast, where he had been ordered to report. 

“I have your marching orders here, Masbolle.” Captain Flyndan, who had assumed control of the daily operations of the Own when Lord Raoul had ridden south for Kel’s Ordeal, tapped a furled scroll against the hard wood of his desk. “General Vanget has tasked Lord Wyldon with building and staffing a new refugee camp. Lord Wyldon has requested a squad from the the Own be posted there indefinitely to aid in the camp’s construction and guarding until the camp’s building is finished.” 

Dom was familiar enough with the intricacies and ironies of military jargon to understand that an indefinite posting could last anywhere from two weeks to two years. His shoulder—wounded by an arrow in a fight against the the killing devices that still gave him nightmares that left him in shivery sweats, screaming in dry-mouthed silence—hurt at the mere suggestion of more construction work. It seemed like only yesterday he and the Own had finished fixing up Fort Giantkiller just to be kicked out by the uncultured brutes of the regular army, who would probably rip out all the chair cushions. Now he and his men were expected to begin another building project. 

“Who’s to command the camp, sir?” Dom asked, thinking the humor of the commander often made the difference in whether a posting was bearable or a drudgery. 

“Captain Elbridge of the regular army.” Captain Flyndan’s reply almost drew a groan from Dom. He’d heard enough mess hall rumors from the regular army soldiers he deigned to associate with that Captain Elbridge had been born with a stick up his backside. Of course, he supposed that the famously flinty Lord Wyldon would consider that an essential quality in any decent commander. “A hard man for an even harder job. Half his men are convicted scum of the worst sort who should be hanging from a gallows, not serving in our army.” 

“Times are tough and resources scarce.” Dom gave a shrug that must have been a tad too flippant for it earned him a glower from Captain Flyndan. His was too calm a temperament to muster up any antipathy for the criminals—no matter how vile their offenses—he had to track down with the Own. That seemed to be working to his advantage now that he was required to fight, bleed, and potentially even die beside them. To him, it was just another one of life’s little ironies, the gods playing a joke on them all. “We all must make do with the poor materials we are given, spinning straw into gold.” 

“Captain Elbridge will rely on you and your squad to help him spin this straw into gold.” Captain Flyndan’s voice and eyes were stony as the northern soil. “He’ll expect you to help him maintain discipline in his camp, especially among the convicts assigned there. That means none of your levity will be acceptable. You must be serious at all times. Do you understand me, Sergeant?” 

“Yes, Captain.” Dom straightened and attempted to stiffen his face into a severe visage that suggested he had never heard a wisecrack he found amusing. “I’ll be serious as lung rot.” 

“Humph.” Captain Flyndan emitted a dubious snort and pushed the still folded scroll across the desk to Dom. “In the scroll, you’ll find a written copy of your orders and a map of the area around the camp where you’ll be posted. No doubt you’ll wish to review the map and your orders with your men. You depart at first light tomorrow. Dismissed.” 

“Yes, sir.” Dom snapped a salute, scooped up the scroll, and took his leave. 

Dom did indeed review the map and his orders with his squad, calling them to him in the barracks. They climbed down from their bunks and clustered around him in a circle as he unfurled the map of the area around the camp on the floor. 

“A piece of elk dung valley between the borders of Tirrsmont and Anak’s Eyrie,” scoffed Fulcher as soon as he saw the land marked for the refugee camp. “That’s the best these nobles with leagues of land can donate to the war effort?” 

“You know how the nobility is, Fulcher. They’re stingy as magpies that have found something shiny with their land.” Wolset seemed to belatedly recall that Dom was of the nobility, casting him a sheepishly apologetic glance. “No insult to your nobility intended, sir.” 

“None taken.” Dom chuckled before remembering that Captain Flyndan had ordered him to take this assignment with the utmost seriousness. More soberly, he went on, trying to draw attention to the few positive features in the bleak picture of the camp landscape the map painted, “There’s the Greenwoods River for water, and flat ground enough for planting if the refugees don’t insist on growing more than is needed for survival.” 

“And high ground that can be fortified,” chimed in Weaver quietly, finger darting across the hills on the map. Weaver, a shy merchant's son from southern Tortall, had been assigned to Dom’s squad to replace Derom—lost to an enemy arrow in the battle against the killing devices—and was hesitant to share his thoughts on anything. 

“Exactly.” Dom gave Weaver an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “High ground for us to fortify. First we build the fortifications and then we defend them. Easy as pie, boys.” 

“Mud pie, no doubt, once the Greenwoods River overflows with snowmelt from the hills,” grumbled Wolset, face dour. 

“Think of the mud baths as a skin treatment.” Dom nudged Wolset, determined to cheer him with taunting. 

“Your skin has gotten very chapped over the winter, Wolset.” Fulcher studied Wolset with exaggerated concern. “Regular mud baths will do wonders for your skin.” 

Spring Showers 

It was easy to quip about mud baths before experiencing them on a daily basis. The mud baths weren’t humorous when subjected to them every day. They were draining, washing out all energy and morale. 

Miserable as anyone else in this mudpit, Dom stared skeptically down at the herbal tea that was supposed to soothe his forever irritated shoulder but had a history of being as hopelessly ineffective as everything else in this refugee camp. During the winter, he had naively assumed that the cold and howling winds would be the worst pain his shoulder had to deal with, but it turned out the spring showers produced a perpetual dampness that made his shoulder hurt more than any winter chill. 

“Glare any harder at that tea, and it’ll freeze.” Fulcher’s voice startled Dom out of his morose musings even though it shouldn’t have. After all, they were sitting side-by-side on the roof of the barracks they had been enlisted to help the carpenters erect, eating a quick lunch as the midday sun shone overhead. “What has doing your best imitation of our fish-faced commander?” 

“Thinking about the higher-up who decided to ruin my life by posting me to this miserable mudpit.” Dom wasn’t about to admit to the constant ache in his shoulder. There were certain weaknesses he couldn’t acknowledge to his men. That was the loneliness of command: the inability to truly confide in those beneath him. 

“That would be Captain Flyndan.” Fulcher’s manner was mock helpful. “He’d court martial you for mutiny if he could see how murderous you look right now, sir.” 

“I’ll court martial you if you tell him.” Dom lifted a finger in warning. He couldn’t imagine how dreary his future assignments would be if Fulcher snitched on him to the humorless second-in-command of the Own. 

“My lips are sealed.” Fulcher made a series of gestures that seemed to illustrate him locking his mouth and throwing out the key. 

“They better be.” Dom couldn’t resist a good-natured threat. “If they aren’t, I’ll have your hide for boots.” 

“They’d make very muddy boots.” Fulcher wore a doleful expression. “I haven’t been properly clean since we were assigned here.” 

“I can smell that.” Dom pinched his nose even though he knew he had to smell foul as Fulcher. “The only baths you’ve had in weeks have been mud ones that only made you filthier.” 

Not So Different

“These convicts aren’t so different from us.” Fulcher waved a muck-splattered palm at the squad of convicts tasked with cutting down trees for the building of barracks—a convict squad Dom’s men were charged with guarding although every convict looked too weary to run. 

“Except for the fact that they’ve been duly convicted in a Crown court for committing the most heinous crimes imaginable.” Lofren, who had a very legal frame of mind as the inevitable consequence of being a magistrate’s son and alone among Dom’s squad had been able to remain a harsh stance against the convicts who served alongside them, rolled his eyes. 

“They’ve paid for those crimes seven times over with interest in all the beatings Captain Elbridge inflicts on them,” snapped Fulcher. Like Dom, Fulcher disapproved of the endless whippings Captain Elbridge administered to the convict soldiers. Flogging existed as an official punishment in the Own, but it was more a genial threat than a genuine one. Dom had never seen anyone in uniform whipped until he was stationed at Captain Elbridge’s camp. Since he had come here, he had witnessed a whipping a day. Watching always made him sick inside. The bloody sight of a convict’s back torn to shreds beneath the merciless cracks of a lash was one to which he could never become immune. One to which he never wanted to become immune since it would mean becoming cruel as Captain Elbridge. 

“Beatings Captain Elbridge gives them for breaking the rules,” Lofren pointed out, dry as a drought. 

“I’ll beat you for insubordination then, Private.” Fulcher scowled. “We’ll see how strong a supporter you are of whippings after that.” 

“You can’t beat me,” Lofren retorted, taking refuge in regulations as he always did. Lofren had the laws of the Own memorized more thoroughly than anyone else Dom had ever met. “You don’t have sufficient rank to beat anyone, Corporal.” 

“I have sufficient rank to beat you unofficially.” Fulcher glared daggers at Lofren, and Dom decided to intervene before the argument came to blows. Tempers were frayed these days. As the sergeant, he had to remember and manage that. 

“This war could make a man look at the convicts differently,” he remarked in a pleasant, unruffled tone just loud enough to discourage debate. 

“Do you think things will be different after the war?” Wolset sounded as if he were truly wondering how they could continue to capture bandits and other criminals after fighting alongside the convicts in the war against Scanra. 

“We have to win the war before we can worry about what might be different after it.” Dom raised his shoulders in a shrug that meant he didn’t know how to answer Wolset’s spoken or unspoken questions. 

“It won’t be the likes of us who determine what’s different after the war, Wolset.” Fulcher’s words were addressed to Wolset but his eyes were fixed on Dom, reminding him of the gulf his noble birth created between him and his men. “It’ll be for the nobility to decide and us to obey as always.” 

Good News at Last 

“I’ve received good news at last,” Captain Elbridge announced one evening in early April as they dined together in the officers’ quarters. “Lord Wyldon has appointed a knight to relieve me of my duties.” 

Captain Elbridge was not the commander with whom to jest about being relieved of duties rarely constituting a cause for celebration. Instead Dom inquired, thinking that even the most arrogant knight had to be an improvement over Captain Elbridge, “Might I ask who this knight is, Captain?” 

“Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan.” Captain Elbridge sneered at the surprise that flickered across Dom’s face before he could stop it. “Well you should look astonished, Sergeant. She’s green as grass and will be too soft to whip the convicts into shape. I pity you and your men. You’ve been saddled with a weak commander, and I’ve been in the army long enough to understand nothing kills more men than that.” 

“It’s my duty to serve the lady knight as I have you.” Dom bit his tongue before his bland statement could swell into a sardonic observation about how it would be a happier duty for him to serve under Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan than it ever had been for him to serve under fish-faced Captain Elbridge. 

His excitement at the promise of Kel taking command of the camp only came out once his dinner with Captain Elbridge was over, and he had gathered his men about him. 

“The good news”—Dom beamed around at his assembled squad—“is that Captain Elbridge will soon be relieved of his duties by a new commander appointed by Lord Wyldon. The even better news is the new commander is none other than Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan.” 

An outbreak of cheers and whistles from his squad greeted this news as Dom had predicted. Even those of his men who had never met Kel were overjoyed at the prospect of no longer being under Captain Elbridge’s command. 

“We ought to do something to welcome milady.” Wolset had been extremely devoted to Kel ever since she had recommended him for a field promotion. “Sew a flag with her coat of arms perhaps?” 

“A marvelous idea.” Dom grinned. “If we can find enough thread, that is.” 

Thread, like everything else in this miserable mudpit, was in short supply. 

“It’ll be a miracle if Wolset doesn’t destroy the embroidery should we find enough thread,” muttered Fulcher, ducking the cuff Wolset aimed at his ear. 

A Faithful Friend and a Crude Gesture 

A week later, Kel arrived at the camp to assume command. She appreciated the banner Wolset had done his best to botch with his clumsy embroidery and set about transforming the miserable mudpit into a Haven with her customary quiet resilience. Modeling the ideal work ethic, she volunteered for every duty—even the most sordid such as mucking out the latrines. As her faithful friend and subordinate, Dom did all he could do to support her, even when that meant protecting her from herself. 

Aware of the danger she would pose to herself if she were allowed to wield a woodworking tools, Dom approached the master carpenter who oversaw the camp’s building projects and said in his friendliest tone, “If the lady knight volunteers to help with the carpentry, you’d be wise to respectfully refuse her. She’s the worst carpenter in Tortall. Hammers herself more often than she does the nail and is at risk of chopping off her own head with a saw or an ax.” 

“We don’t have any nails or wood to spare.” The master carpenter grimaced at Dom’s description of Kel’s woodworking abilities. “I’ll be sure to refuse her offers to volunteer. You can bet on that, sir.” 

Three days later, Dom watched from a walkway as she approached the master carpenter and was doubtlessly informed that he had learned from Dom she was a disaster with hammer, saw, and ax. Dom continued to grin benevolently down at her even when she made a crude gesture up at him. He was grateful even if she wasn’t that her fingers were still intact for her to make crude gestures at him.


End file.
